


In Memorium

by Jubalii



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series, Layton Kyouju vs Gyakuten Saiban | Professor Layton vs. Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney, 逆転裁判 | Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Drunken Confessions, F/M, Holidays, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 12:35:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5417318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jubalii/pseuds/Jubalii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because the dearly departed haven't left, doesn't mean you can't still remember the time when they were presumed to be gone. Remembering is key to getting past a great loss, even when they were lost for the better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“You know, this was supposed to be a solemn vigil in honor of the Storyteller’s death and everything that happened after it. I don’t know how in the world you young’uns changed it into a nightlong drunken rout.” Patty Eclaire shook her head as she wrung the juice out of nine lemons and then began to grate the zest into a small dish. The bakery, like most stores, was closed today so that they could all prepare and get some sleep before staying up all night. However, they weren’t tired at all with the sun shining down through the windows, and Mrs. Eclaire still had to make lemon meringue pies for the banquet supper.

            Barnham had managed to doze off at the table for an hour before being woken up by Espella’s loud chatter; the young woman was preparing her own cake to bring, and her excitement for the night was building by the hour. The Town Anniversary, despite being only five years old as a Labyrinthian holiday, was already just as popular as the Fire Festival.

The first festival was more conservative: a symbolic Parade, staying up all night in the town square, a small speech from the Storyteller on the significance of what happened in the Witch Trials, and concluding with the ringing in the ‘new dawn’ with the bell as the sun rose. But as years passed, it changed until now it was a loud party where the whole town ate and drank to their hearts content. The Storyteller still made a speech and they still rang the bell, but the solemnity was gone and in its place was something more like a large family reunion mixed with a carnival.

“Well it’s not as though anyone _actually_ died,” Espella argued as she mixed her batter and poured it into a spare mold. “Besides, shouldn’t we celebrate the happy ending?” she asked, tilting her head in concentration as she settled the air bubbles from the batter. “I’m only disappointed that Professor Layton and Mr. Wright couldn’t be here this time. Last year was so fun, getting to meet up with everyone again.”

            “They have obligations, the same as the rest of us,” Barnham pointed out as he pressed crusts down into pie tins for Patty. “I’m sure they’re just as disappointed that they couldn’t be here as you are.” He smoothed out the crumbled crust into a flat sheet on the bottom, ready for baking. His fingers made small indents in the crust as he pressed the edges in place and filled in tears the way the baker had taught him long ago. “I just can’t believe ‘tis been five years already.”

           “Me either,” Patty agreed, mixing the thick meringue with a strong arm. “Time goes by so quickly nowadays. I mean, just look at you,” she said affectionately, flicking the spoon at Espella. “I was worried to death that you’d be burnt up then, but you’re alive and now you’ve filled out into such a pretty young lady.” The girl reddened, but smiled at the compliment. “Why, you’ve—” A knock on the door stopped her from continuing, and she looked up in surprise. “Whoever could that be?” she murmured before calling out “Come in! The door’s unlocked!”

            It was one of the knights, a pale, freckled lad with shaggy hair hanging all in his face. He was only half-dressed in his armor, keeping most of it off until having to don the heavy, hot gear for the Parade. He half-bowed to the women before turning to Barnham, sticking his helmet under his arm so that he could salute properly.

            “Sir! They told me to come see if you were busy, sir!” He stood at attention, chest puffed out to the point of absurdity. Barnham turned in his chair, placing the final pie tin to the side and wiping his graham cracker-dusted hands on a dishcloth.

            “What is it?”

            “Sir! We need another hand to help with the preparations at the bell tower, sir!” Barnham arched a brow; the kid must have been nervous, to be “Sir”ing more than Lettie Mailer on a cheerful day. It wasn’t unusual; most people wanted to treat him like some sort of untouchable celebrity and got flustered when in close proximity. “Originally we had Shakey to help, but…” the boy trailed off, scratching his head. “After his accident last week, you can understand why we can’t rely on his assistance today.”

            “Of course I’ll come and help. Go on ahead and tell them I’m on my way; just allow me enough time to change clothing.” The knight saluted again and turned on his metal heel, running out the door and down the street. He came back to offer another polite bow to the women through the window before running off again. Espella stared after him before giggling as she squatted to push the cake into the oven, shaking her head at the boy’s antics.

            “Well, it can’t be helped,” Patty clucked her tongue. “That Shakey’s been bruising himself up from the day he was born.” She shook her head again, the very picture of motherly exasperation. “Go on, child. If those crusts are ready, I can do the rest myself.” She waved him on before swiping a finger of meringue. Espella crept around her like a cat and got a taste as well. Both women cringed, mouths puckering when the mixture hit their taste buds.

“T- _tart_ ,” the baker managed to wheeze when her tongue untied, her young ward nodding vigorously in agreement.

* * *

Barnham stood in the lavatory, staring at himself in the mirror. He was dressed in his armor, polished and gleaming in preparation for the Parade. His hair was brushed, face washed, freshly shaved, teeth gleaming. He always had taken Parades seriously in earlier years: after all, it was the future of the town he loved to serve and protect.

He stared at his reflection thoughtfully. People in the town called him gallant; the older women said he was charming, the younger said he was handsome. He even had a little fan club that used to show up to all of his Court proceedings and called out to him when they saw him in the streets. But did he _really_ look gallant and charming? The knights in the bard’s songs that were called gallant made women swoon and men jealous. He didn’t think that he’d ever made any lady swoon, and none of the knights ever acted jealous around him. _I look like myself,_ he finally decided. _Nothing more, nothing less._

The sun shone brightly down on him as he left the bakery and walked in the direction of the bell tower. It had been raining the past three days without end, and the gullies besides the streets were muddy. Puddles glimmered in the bright light, the sky above a brilliant shade of clear blue without a cloud in sight. A warm breeze blew between the buildings, ruffling his hair and causing the alleys to echo with a low sound that sounded more like groaning old men than any wind.

The streets were nearly empty, only those who had to be awake to keep the town running and prepare for the festival wandering the winding roads. Most were knights, putting up roadblocks for the Parade and clearing the streets of debris. Some were citizens charged with preparing the banquet and decorating the square. The only other ones out and about were stray animals and a goat, mostly likely wandering away from Mary’s farm unchecked.

The square was more lively, people running around in all directions. Kira—who, despite all her whining and griping, had gone back to her job as a flower seller—was helping her boss hang large garlands of every wildflower imaginable all over the torchlights and bell tower. Labyrinthian women were spreading white tablecloths over long tables where, in a few hours, nearly every household would have at least one dish on display for consumption.

There was a shout of panic that sounded like Cutter, of all people. A second later he saw why as a carved stone bust of the Storyteller flew over everyone’s heads in a beautiful arc. He could already see the exquisite craftsmanship crushed to gravel on the ground and winced. Thankfully, the Vigilantes were standing near the Ground Zero; Foxy looked up, her lipsticked mouth open in a little ‘O’ of surprise. She reached out, leaning over her seat on the edge of a lumber pile to catch the bust with surprising deftness. Leaning forward as she was, the bustier of her armor was on full display; some, like Barnham, politely looked away while others gawked. Servius fainted in a swoon, Treddon following him in a slump to his knees.

“Y-you clods!” Cutter looked on the verge of passing out himself, though at the sight of the saved bust everyone let out a long sigh of relief. He turned, the force of his angry face forcing Muggs and Briggs back at least three paces. “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?!”

“H-hey! Don’t get mad at us!” Briggs shouted, hopping up and down angrily. “You big oaf!”

“Oaf!?” This was Rouge, stepping between the pair and the scary-looking stonemason with her arms crossed. “This guy is the most precise man I’ve ever met in my life. You two are the oafs, you klutzes.” She tossed her head. “Don’t you two know that the drinking doesn’t start until tonight?”

“Oi! That’s fighting words, you witch!” Muggs spat the Labyrinthian slur—potent as any curse—as he stepped forward. There was a flash of silver and Rouge’s dagger was twirled between her fingers, ready to slice at the first ne’er-do-well to dare challenge her.

“Stop this.” The calm, firm order had them all looking up at the platform where the Storyteller would give his speech later that evening. The former High Inquisitor stood there, dressed in her most imposing Court outfit, complete with cape and claws. “What you’re doing is the very reason we even have this celebration; it’s a reminder that accusations and name-calling leads to nothing but trouble, as a certain schoolmistress might say. That’s no way to act _any_ day, but especially not _today_.”

Rouge put her dagger back where it came from with a nod of obedience, but the two delinquents weren’t so cooperative. Muggs grumbled something under his breath, Briggs stepping towards the platform in what was meant to be a threatening manner.

“So what?” He said, turning his head aside and spitting in the dirt. “Just what are yougonna do about it?” He seemed to have forgotten just who he was speaking to. “You oughta be thanking your lucky stars that I haven’t come up there and sliced you open yet, _Milady_.”

Barnham’s hand clenched into a fist involuntarily, his entire being quaking with the effort of holding himself back. He wanted nothing more than to march over there and slam that bucktoothed head of his into the dirt for daring to threaten _his_ …friend. Really, he wanted to knock both their heads together and put them in the stockades for a day or two, just to get in in their thick skulls that they shouldn’t speak to any woman in that way, no matter who it was. But for them to speak in that tone to _Eve_ —He took one step forward, throat constricting as he reached automatically for his blade.

His armor clinked, though no one but Rouge seemed to notice. The bartender turned her head, eyeing him curiously. She looked at him, his hand on the sword, then at the two boys, at Eve standing over them, and then back to his face again. Her lips curved in a wry smile, but it faded just as quickly and she gave her head the smallest of shakes. He caught her silent message, straightening up and taking his hand off the sword with a deep breath. Rouge was right; rushing in his with hot head might just make things worse. But if one of those insolent children placed a single hand on that platform, he was going to tackle him to the ground and rip every tooth out of his head one by one.

Despite the threats and sarcasm, Eve only arched a brow and smiled coldly.

“I _suggest_ that you two boys get back home where you can stay out of trouble. That is, unless you want to play the part of Sir Barnham on this night, and pass the evening in one of my underground dungeons.” She pointed at him, but something caught her off guard; her eyes widened, finger faltering. The two ‘reformed bandits’ didn’t see her expression; they turned to see him standing there within easy catching distance. He affixed his best glare and Muggs eyes also widened, but in fear. Briggs laughed nervously before waving them away dismissively.

“They—heh—they’re not worth our time, Muggs.” He turned, walking away with his hands in his pockets. “C-c-come on, let’s get outta here.”

“R-right.” Muggs seemed to be frozen in place, but thawed all at once and ran after his partner quickly, looking behind him as if afraid that Barnham would be following him. He did follow him, but only with his eyes until they’d turned the corner and were out of sight. Rouge looked up at the ex-Inquisitor.

“You didn’t need to do that. I can handle myself.” Eve blinked twice before tearing her eyes from Barnham to look down at the redhead.

“I know that. That’s why I stopped it before it went that far.” Everyone chuckled, even Rouge. She shrugged and then turned, heading back to her previous job of ordering her men around as she got ready for the ale and wine that would soon flow in abundance all night. The event was over, everyone dispersing to their duties.

Barnham looked down at his boots, frowning. It wasn’t like him to sit out and let everyone else handle things, but this time it worked out alright. It was probably for the best; he had a temper—his arguments with Eve as an Inquisitor used to shake the Courthouse rafters when they were both in a bad enough mood. But never before had he felt such a rage before, not even with the witches. Not even when she’d accused him of treason. He’d never wanted to really _hurt_ someone before this moment.

“Zacharias? Are you alright?” He looked up to see Eve standing in front of him, her eyes narrowed in scrutiny as she looked him over. He must have still had some of his glare left, because she looked concerned. “Zacharias?” she repeated, reaching out for him. He stepped back, out of arm’s length.

“I’m fine, Miss Eve.” He bent his head and moved past her. “I’ll speak to you later; right now, I have to go help the knights. They’re waiting on me.” He heard her sputter something in protest. “I’ll see you at the Parade!” he called over his shoulder, trying to inject some carefreeness into his tone. She stood there, watching as her hand fell back to her side.

He faced forward, striding towards where the other knights were trying to life more of the platform in place so that they could hang the banner. The confused look on her face made his heart clench, but he didn’t dare turn back around now. This was happening too often to count…how disconcerting.

His and the High Inquisitor’s professional relationship had been all but severed after she’d thrown him into the dungeon. He’d fallen into a restless slumber after a while, and had woken up with the dawn. Something _else_ had dawned over him, something he couldn’t figure out. It wasn’t until the Storyteller had come to get him that he had learned of what had transpired. _That_ had been a sight; he thought that he’d cracked, seeing a dead man standing in front of him.

But the Storyteller wasn’t dead. The witches weren’t dead. And while everyone else had all forgotten about him alone in the dungeon, the Storyteller had informed him that Eve had told the old man where to find him. Arthur had divulged the High Inquisitor’s—now ex-Inquisitor—embarrassment and guilt for having to treat him in such a way, but he had been too close to finding the truth and ruining her plans. She’d felt so bad that she hadn’t been able to face up to coming down here herself and trying to explain it so that he could understand.

“She thought you’d actually listen if you heard it from me,” he had said, sitting next to him on the tiny wooden bench in the cell. He wrung his hands in his lap. “Please don’t think badly of her.” But he had…at first. Then she’d invited him to help her rebuild the town. And she’d apologized, on her own time, looking down at her desk with red cheeks and sad eyes. She was different than she was before, but then again, so was everyone. It was as if a giant weight was off the town. It really was a new chapter for them all.

So as they’d worked together, they’d regained their working relationship, and then they’d become something more akin to friends as she reformed her bonds with Espella. He found himself walking her to the gate, lost in conversation about the town, the citizens, or just talking about old times. He’d started work at the bakery, learning how to make pastries so that on her birthday he could give her something nice to show how much he appreciated her. It had been a fiasco, and everyone had joked about him having a ‘soft spot’ for her.

At first he hadn’t thought much of it (after all, it wasn’t the firsttime he’d been the face of ridicule around the town, and it always passed soon enough and was forgotten by most) but as the years passed, he wondered if they were right. He wanted…he _wanted_ … he wanted something more than what he already had. Just having her as his friend wasn’t enough. He enjoyed her company and her smiles and when she touched his arm or when she laughed at something he said; he liked it almost _too_ much.

But he wouldn’t tell her. He couldn’t even get out a simple happy birthday to her, much less a real _confession._ As far as he was concerned, she didn’t even feel the same way. She never gave him any sort of indication that she even paid attention to his subtle hints, aside from a coy glance or two that he might have just misread. She was always calm, cool, and collected; it left him scratching his head and finally just accepting the fact that she’d probably never see him the same way he saw her.

Sighing, he reached the knights and grabbed the end of the platform’s support beam, pushing his weight against it with the rest of the men and tucking his thoughts to the back of his mind; if he didn’t concentrate now, he was liable to be killed by some accident. He was nowhere near as lucky as Shakey when it came to evading death.

* * *

 

_What was the matter with him?_

Eve stood on the Storyteller’s float, her usual spot during the Parades. They were lining up now, the sun dropping lower in the sky. The Storyteller wasn’t here yet and she was alone, watching as one of the Captains spoke to Barnham. He’d said that he’d come to speak with her, but the Captains had taken him aside the moment he’d arrived and were talking in tones too low for her to hear. He nodded, saying something more to them before mounting his horse and taking his place. She watched him with a frown, but he twisted around and let go of the reins in order to wave apologetically at her.

She waved back, forcing a smile on her face until he’d turned back around. Something about him was off, but she wasn’t sure what. It worried her; she crossed her arms, chewing on her lip as she pondered it all over. She had noticed him earlier that day, and even heard one of the knights sending a lackey over to the bakery to ask for his help, but she hadn’t been able to speak with him the moment he’d come.

Right before she had been about to greet him, those two wrongdoers had been doing some sort of unseen mischief that resulted in the Storyteller’s bust (commissioned by her for the fifth anniversary) to be tossed into the air and narrowly caught by Foxy. They’d gotten into a spat first with the sculptor, then with Rouge. She knew that Rouge wouldn’t hesitate to put them in their place in the _wrong_ way, so she’d stepped in before anything bad could happen.

Of course the boys had turned and threatened her too, as if she’d be scared of a few sniveling, bratty young men who had once been her Shades. She’d made the offhand comment that they could play the part that Sir Barnham had played five years ago, sitting alone in the dungeons and waiting on her to come seal their fate. She’d pointed at the knight, but when looking up she’d been taken aback by the look of sheer fury in his eyes.

At first, she thought his anger was directed at her for her comment and had been confused. Surely he was over it by now; after all, she’d apologized five years ago and thought that they had moved on. They were good friends now, weren’t they? But then she had realized that his rage was for the two little troublemakers that were threatening her. She’d never seen such a look on his face before, and had actually been scared that he would do something. But he’d stayed put, they’d left after seeing that the knight meant business.

She’d gone to him then, hopping off the platform and hurrying to his side. He’d been staring down at his shoes, looking almost afraid. He hadn’t answered her with his usual goofy manner when she’d asked if he was alright, but then he’d avoided her and promptly left to go help the knights. His behavior was puzzling, and she was missing the piece that would connect the others and shed light on the mystery.

She watched a knight walk up and hand him his helmet; the way he moved in the armor was like an art form in and of itself. She stared at him, taking in his broad shoulders, the way the metal plating moved as he adjusted himself on the horse, tugging the checkered tunic up over his hair, tucking the distinct red down so that none of it would catch in the helmet. The way his hair moved made it look thick and soft; her fingers itched to run through it and see if her thoughts were correct. But she never would—to even ask permission would sound strange. Girls could freely touch one another’s hair if they were close enough, and men could ruffle and tease one another’s locks similarly, but for the sexes to mix indicated a certain level of intimacy. Besides, she was far too shy.

As if sensing her eyes on him, he turned back once more. She smiled again, unsure if she should call out over the heads of the knights. What would she say, even if she had the guts to do it? Their eyes locked and she felt her heart flutter; the color of his eyes was one of the first things she’d ever noticed about him when they were first introduced. Not many people in Labyrinthia had light colored eyes, and even then no one had such a strangely stormy, grayish color like his.

He looked away after a moment, putting on the helmet with a small frown as he turned to sit ramrod straight on his horse. Yes, something was most definitely not right with him this evening; usually he would have made a fool of himself by doing something silly. He usually acted that way at the bakery, but no matter how simple and ridiculous it was she found herself laughing at it.

Besides, the smile on his face when he managed to get her laughing at his jokes was enough to make her feel twice as happy, strangely enough. And then he’d stare at her a moment with that weird expression that made her warm and confused, but before she could read into it the he always turned around and began to make Espella fall over laughing with his impression of Emeer Punchenbaug. She never knew how to act around him anymore; it was a fact that simultaneously annoyed and excited her.

But now he was—what? Sad? Depressed? Still angry? No matter what it was, she didn’t like it. She wanted to help him, but how? How could she help if she didn’t even know what the matter was? She thought some more, but by the time the Storyteller arrived and climbed into his seat she still hadn’t thought of anything.

And then… why not ask the man? After all, the Storyteller had always been good to her, even if he’d gotten lost from the right path and had to be ‘gently’ nudged back onto the straight and narrow. She had even gotten to the point that she had been able to forgive him for his actions, and now he was near and dear to her heart again—even if he was an eccentric old geezer sometimes.

“Mr. Cantabella,” she murmured as the Captains ran up and down the lines, getting the orchestra ready and making sure everyone was in formation. “Have you noticed Zacharias’s mood lately?” She peered at him from the corner of her eye.

“Mood? Can’t say that I have,” the old man replied, scratching his chin lightly with his quill. Though he didn’t write the Story anymore, he still made books for the children and carrying his quill around was purely habitual to him now. “What’s the matter?” Slowly, she explained everything that had happened that day, trying to skirt around the extent of her concerns; after all, she didn’t want to sound too prying and—dare she say it?— _infatuated_.

“Ready the procession!” the Captain at the front called. The command echoed down the line and then with a jolt they all began to move. “Forward march!” Eve steadied herself as the float’s wheels creaked into motion, bending her knees to keep from falling forward until the she grew used to the rocking.

“You pay very close attention to him, don’t you, Eve?” the Storyteller asked matter-of-factly. “Tell me, are you so worried about his work performance that you feel the need to keep tabs?”

“Of course that’s not it!” she protested. Did everyone really think she was _that_ detached from her emotions? “I just don’t want him to be so out of sorts, is all! I care about him!” The Storyteller chuckled knowingly, leaning back in his seat.

“Ah, so you have feelings for him,” he murmured. “Why am I not surprised?” Eve felt her cheeks burn, but didn’t try and correct him. If he pressed, she would tell him that her so-called ‘feelings’ were nothing more than friendly and innocent in nature… weren’t they? Then again, she didn’t feel the same way about him that she did for her other friends. Maybe…maybe this _was_ what it felt like to have a crush on someone. But if so, then why, out of all the eligible men in Labyrinthia, did her heart have to settle on _him_?! After all, he was silly, overdramatic, loud, oftentimes sweaty— _handsome, gentle, sweet, chivalrous_ , her mind continued for her.

“That doesn’t matter right now,” she finally retorted. “I just want to know how to help him.” The Storyteller only chuckled, and she felt almost regretful of asking him. She pursed her lips, looking away. Of course she just had to make it hard on herself, didn’t she? Instead of getting to stay good friends and coworkers, her stupid heart had to jump in and make things awkward. She wasn’t blind to the new tension that had begun to crop up in some of their conversations, their words teetering on the line between friendly teasing and subtle innuendos.

But what could she do? She didn’t know how to say anything, and besides, wasn’t the man supposed to confess? That’s how it was in the fairytales and songs sung by mothers all over town… was that not true? It was times like this that she wished she had a mother to pose these burning questions to.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” the Storyteller answered as the procession turned onto the main street. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the tumultuous cheering. “He’ll come around on his own time. Until then, the fact that you’re here for him will be enough. Young men have these spells of melancholy at times, too; it’s not just for women,” he laughed again, waving to Espella and Patty in the crowd.

“I understand,” she said quietly, looking up at the evening sky through the confetti that floated in the air around her, tossed by eager citizens leaning out of upper story windows. _I understand, but in the end I’ll still worry._ She swallowed, closing her eyes and blocking out anything other than the sounds of the crowd; she took a deep breath and when she opened them again, they were full of false joviality as her old mask slipped into place.

Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t see the old man’s eyes narrow on her, frowning as he continued to scratch at his chin until there was a red welt. His gaze shifted from the young woman to the knight riding at the front of the procession, taking in the rigid posture. He had discerned from Eve’s stilted speech that she hadn’t told him the whole story of what happened that afternoon, or even what had caused her concern in the first place.

He’d seen the error of not keeping a close eye on problems; it had nearly cost his daughter her sanity, if not her life. He’d learned, and now he wondered if perhaps he should look deeper into the matter after all. He pushed the thoughts from his mind and continued to act pleasant and happy for the citizens of his town, but now his mind too was in unrest.


	2. Chapter 2

            “Zacharias?” Mrs. Eclaire took another bite of chicken, her free hand pressed thoughtfully against her cheek as she chewed. “No, I can’t say I’ve seen any sort of marked change in the child…” she trailed off, brow furrowing as she thought hard. “N—well let me think—nope, nothing really stands out, from what I remember. Why do you ask?”

            “Eve addressed a few concerns to me during the Parade that I thought should be looked into. Perhaps she’s reading too far into things.” Arthur sipped his ale and humphed. “Still, maybe the two of us should keep a closer eye on him. After all, these citizens lived years under the effects of drugs, for lack of a better term. It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if there were a mood-changing side effect that came with the withdrawals.”

            “But we’ve not had a Story in years!” Patty protested as she dipped her roll in the juices left from the chicken on her plate. “Surely by now—” Arthur cut her off with a single shake of his head.

            “It’s a well-known fact that some of the more potent drugs have effects that last years, even _decades_ after they stop entering the bloodstream. It’s one of the reasons I still keep tabs on the citizens that decided to return to their old lives… I want to make sure that if something were to happen, I could get in touch with them all and get the proper help underway. It would be my fault they had these aftereffects.” He frowned down at his plate.

            “Oh. I see.” Patty finished her roll and downed the rest of her wine in two gulps. “Really, you can’t blame yourself. We all signed up for it, and if it’s as well-known as you say, we should have known that side effects were possible. So it’s not entirely your fault, right?”

            “If that’s what you think.” He looked up at the clock. “Well, I suppose that I should make my speech before they’re all too drunk to understand what I’m saying. It grows late.” He stood, offering to take the baker’s plate from her and disposing of them both into a nearby trash bin before making his way towards the platform. He’d known earlier today what he wanted to say, but now he was second-guessing himself. He climbed the stairs slowly, his arthritis flaring as he finally made it to the top and looked out over the tops of the crowds. One of the knights’ captains was idly leaning against the platform and he motioned to him.

            “My good sir, if you please—” He motioned at the crowd, who was so busy with their fun that they hadn’t even noticed him on the platform yet. The captain looked up at him blankly before coming back to himself. He jumped to attention, the beer in his chalice sloshing and spilling over the edge of the platform, staining the wood a dark color.

            “OI! EVERYONE!” he shouted, his voice booming out across the Courtyard. “THE STORYTELLER’S ABOUT TO GIVE HIS SPEECH!” Those who heard turned and shushed those who somehow hadn’t, and soon the entire space was silent and listening. Arthur looked over the crowds, picking out faces that he’d seen every day for so many years. His throat tightened with emotion; he loved his city and its people, he’d loved creating their Story, he’d loved watching them go from despondent everyday citizens to happy, bustling medieval townspeople. It had given him a purpose in life beyond that of helping his daughter: with Labyrinthia, he had felt as though he might actually be doing some _good_ in the world.

            “My dear, dear Labyrinthians,” he began, clearing his throat and forcing back the tearful sentiment that grew within him. “Tonight marks the fifth anniversary of my death, and subsequently my life. Without the events that transpired on the eve of the last witch trial, and the dawning of the next day, I would have never known that I was leading a shadow of and existence. When I became so caught up in everyone’s happy ending, I forgot that I was missing the fulfilment of my own.”

He looked over and saw Espella standing next to Patty, her cat on her shoulder and hands clasped loosely before her as she listened with a serene smile. She looked so much like her late mother when she made that face; it only tugged at his heartstrings more, and he’d be damned if he were to cry like an old man in front of the entire town. He looked away, seeing Eve standing close to one of the fountains, arms crossed as she also watched him. Her expression was more serious than her younger friends. He had her to thank for waking him up from his writing stupor; he felt as though he could never apologize enough for putting her through such a tremendous burden as he had.

“T-that is why we celebrate on this evening, my friends.” He turned his attention back to the townspeople waiting so patiently for his speech. “We must never forget our own dark history. Though we ‘live it up’ in gaiety, so to speak, at the same time I must ask that you remember our situation only five short years ago. Where were you? Many of you were at the Court, learning the truth about your town from a man who had just died a few hours prior. Some of you weren’t born yet. Some of you were only small children. Many of the people there that night have moved on, either through death or by returning to the life they’d once left behind after signing a little piece of paper.”

A murmur of agreement ran through the people, and then was followed by a new chorus of ‘shh!” as they grew too loud. His eye caught Zacharias, standing with a crowd of his knightly comrades. Their eyes met and he felt himself smiling reassuringly.

“And some of you were even the _accused_ ; if not that night, than so many nights prior.” He spread his arms out as though trying to embrace them all. “How far we have come since then!” The murmur rose to a roar as the crowd shouted their exuberant concordance. “And so, in conclusion, my friends, I ask that you remember this one thing. We rang in a new dawn with that bell, and it is that bell that we’ll ring a new dawn in tomorrow. Please remember that each day is a new dawn. No matter what is going on in your life, the rising of the sun shines a bright new beginning for each and every one of you. It is only up to you to seize it. I thank you, and ask that you enjoy this evening.” He bowed and was graced with a standing ovation as the town cheered and applauded.

“Wow, Dad!” Espella gushed when he was back at Patty’s side once more. “That was very… motivational!” He inclined his head in gratitude.

“I wished for it to be so. I can only hope you young ones will take an old man’s advice…” he sighed, searching for Zacharias or Eve in the crowd and finding neither. Espella followed his eyes, trying to see what he looked for, but turned back to him when he spoke again. “I also meant that you should be awake for the coming of the new dawn, so don’t drink yourself to sleep this year.” He was all fatherly disapproval now, staring down his nose at her. She blushed and waved his words off.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” she promised, crossing her heart. “I had such an awful headache last year that I don’t _dare_ drink half as much. Aunt Patty wasn’t at all sympathetic, either,” she complained. “I lost count of how many times you banged your rolling pin down on the counter, or slammed the oven door.” Arthur couldn’t help but laugh at this; it sounded much like something the fiery baker would do.

“Serves you right,” the woman in question retorted smartly. She crossed her arms, nose in the air. “I told you two not to overdo it, but what did I see? I could barely get you out of bed and Zacharias was dragging his feet like his armor was ten tons heavier. And on a day that’s supposed to be solemn and dignified,” she tsked, shaking her head.

“But you’re drinking right now!” Espella exclaimed, pointing to the refilled chalice of wine. Aunt Patty looked down at it before arching a brow imperiously at her charge.

“Young lady, there’s a high difference between drinking in moderation and pure _cavorting_.” Arthur was beside himself with laughter now as Espella pouted, tugging the end of her braid as she tried to find a suitable argument and came up short.

“Dad, you’re supposed to take my side,” she finally mumbled. Arthur got himself under control and wiped his eyes where a few tears of mirth leaked out around the wrinkles.

“How can I when I agree with her? I’m not one for boozing and carousing.” He paused as Mrs. Eclaire shot him a measured glance. “Well, I’m not _anymore,_ ” he amended. “In my day I could hold my liquor tolerably well, I suppose. But we should let the children have fun, Patty,” he said gently. “I don’t mind them having this day for a little innocent partying.”

“There’s nothing innocent about it!” All three of them turned around to see Ms. Primstone standing behind them. The (former) Judge also stood there, listening raptly to the conversation with tankard in hand. The teacher was nearly quivering with righteous indignation as she swung her baton around and nearly smacked the poor Judge in the side of the head.

“Hmm?” the Judge turned to her, as if only now noticing that she was there. “Whatever do you mean?” He took a drink, his beard glistening wetly in the light of the torches.

“W-whatever do you _mean_?!” she repeated in a sputtering tone. The primary teacher puffed up her chest, looking like a goose about to attack a wayward child down by the river. She adjusted her glasses. “Dearie, dearie me!” she sighed, as if having to lower herself to accept the fact that not everyone thought of the worst-case scenario first. “Dearest Judge, take it upon yourself to study what I am about to tell you. It will be on the test.”

“Sure. Whatever you say,” he agreed with his usual idyllic cheer. _Ignorance is bliss_ , Arthur thought to himself, feeling the old saying was appropriate. Ms. Primstone sniffed and flicked her baton in an upwards motion, assuming the ‘lecture’ pose.

“Young ladies and gentlemen are perfectly genteel at all times, _unless_ they have procured copious amounts of inebriating drink. Inhibitions lower, the mind grows woozy, and all sorts of lewd, unwarranted thoughts arise in the wake of a night ‘on the town’. Without proper supervision, these darling youths—” Here she poked the baton gently to Espella’s cheek, causing the girl to flinch back instinctively, “—are subject to all sorts of improper conduct. Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr. Storyteller, but is it not so?” she finished, eyelashes fluttering.

“Um… you’re not wrong, Ms. Primstone,” Arthur allowed. “But at the same time—” He was trying to find a delicate phrase, but he was interrupted.

“What sort of nonsense is that?!” Patty snipped, tilting her head. “Of course youngsters are going to get into a little trouble when they’re drunk, but it’s a natural part of the course of life, isn’t it?” she said, posing her question to Arthur as well. “All you can do is close your eyes to it and hope they have enough sense to keep…” she glanced at Espella, who was listening attentively, “ _things_ from happening as a result.”

“It’s not nice to refer to babies as things, Aunt Patty,” the girl pointed out. Her father and her guardian glared at her; she wilted beneath their combined gaze. “I’m twenty-three,” she pointed out quietly. “I’m not completely ignorant of what happens.”

“Hush, child.” Patty smacked her hand lightly and she obediently bit her lip. “This is a conversation you shouldn’t even be a part of. Go find Eve—no, go find Jean or Lettie. On a night like tonight, ‘tis best you stay with girls your own age.” It might have been a trick of the firelight, but she looked like she might have been blushing. “Eve’s most likely got her own manners to attend to.” Espella scoffed indignantly.

“Why can’t I go be with Eve? She’s my best friend!”

“Because she’s a responsible, mature young woman and you’re still a child. Now _get_.” She smacked her lightly on the backside as the girl huffed before stomping off. “That only proves how ignorant you are still!” she called after her, clucking and taking another drink of wine. “Now, Ms. Primstone,” she continued, turning back to look up at the bony woman. “You were saying?”

 _“You_ were just saying that it was perfectly alright to let the youth of this town walk about in pure promiscuity and…and…debauchery!” she exploded, throwing up her hands. Her eyes widened and she brandished the baton in Mrs. Eclaire’s face. “You’re—you’re— _you’re a_ _woman of loose morals_!”

            Arthur felt the air change immediately and gulped. Patty’s mouth, which had been turning down further and further into a frown during the woman’s tirade, was now a complete glower. She sat her tumbler down on one of the eating tables, pulling off her mittens one by one and setting them next to it. Her eyes narrowed, but Ms. Primstone was either not about to back down, or didn’t sense the danger.

            “You dare to say that I am a woman of loose morals?” Patty spoke in a tone of the utmost calm. “I didn’t raise that child to be as good and as sweet as she is with loose morals, and I’ll be _damned_ if some walking skeleton with a powdered wig is going to stand there and tell me that I’m immoral!” she ended on a shout. “Patricia Gallaher isn’t anything if not virtuous!”

            “Patricia?” The Judge repeated, brow wrinkling in confusion.

            “Gallaher?” Ms. Primstone added, her tone derisive. Arthur said nothing as Mrs. Eclaire blinked twice, her mind catching up to her mouth. She cleared her throat, backing away from where she’d been trying to loom over the teacher, and brushed off the front of her apron.

            “Aye. I’m Patricia Gallaher,” she announced, though she sounded almost as bewildered as the Judge. “And unlike _some_ folks around here, I managed to nab me a husband, so I wouldn’t say much about anything if I were you.” She tossed her head, but her short hair took away from the overall effect.

            “Well I _never_!” Ms. Primstone’s cheeks flushed darkly and she looked as though she might start brandishing the baton as a real weapon rather than a threat of corporal punishment. Arthur took this moment to jump in, seeing as the Judge was clearly rather interested in watching than breaking the two women apart.

            “Come on now, Patty,” he said soothingly, taking her shoulders. “Let’s not get overexcited.” He leaned in closer. “There’s always a chance that Espella’s still watching.” This had the desired effect, and the woman pursed her lips once more at the primary teacher before picking up mittens and chalice both and stalking moodily through the crowd. Arthur bowed to the Judge and teacher both before following her, discreetly wiping his brow. He was getting far too old to be tearing apart angry women. Where were those young, agile knights when you needed them?

* * *

            _Dong…dong…dong…dong…._ Eve looked out at the graying light of dawn, the sun barely peeking over the horizon. She’d had enough wine to give her a buzz, and then a few drinks beyond that to help her forget her concerns for a bit. After all, if it was sanctioned as a holiday, why couldn’t she enjoy it? She didn’t need any stupid redhead mucking up her thoughts and making her question her own emotions.

            She sat on a hillock just inside of the town gates, watching the bell tower from afar. She’d left the Courtyard after 3:00 with the intentions of going home, but found herself wanting to stay and hear the bell. So now she sat demurely in her half-drunken stupor, still alert enough to understand where she was and what she was doing without having to worry about all those extra, needless details. The bell caught the light as it swung back and forth in its peals, temporarily blinding her with each forwards movement.

            She listened in satisfaction and then rested more on the hillock, happy enough in her current state that she didn’t mind the dew alighting on the ground around her; it dampened her clothes, but not her spirits. She heard the bustle from the Courtyard disperse as stragglers began to head home with light hearts, never minding the fact that when they woke up later they’d have horrible hangovers. She’d seen a few young couples staggering together in the direction of the forest—no doubt later they’d be coming back red-faced, preparing for a sharp scolding from their mothers but still smiling like fools as they held hands.

            She frowned, pulling her knees up to her chest as she wobbled on the uneven surface of the ground. Why’d she have to think that? Now it made her wonder what it would be like to hold some man’s hand and walk along to face the music, feeling guilty for having worried her family but entirely unrepentant for the time spent in the woods doing _everyone_ -knows-what. She didn’t have anyone like that in her life, though lately she’d seen a few men giving her second glances as she walked the streets. But she couldn’t think of anyone that she even felt particularly interested in, except—no, she wouldn’t even think it.

            “E-Eve?” Rolling her eyes towards the heavens, she made a silent plea that the voice calling her name belonged only to her imagination. Surely she couldn’t be a psychic, calling him with her thoughts. But no, _there_ was the bane of her existence—well, perhaps bane was too harsh a word. After all, he hadn’t really done anything to deserve her discredit, other than behave strangely. It wasn’t as if he’d asked that she take a fancy to him. “Hey, Ev-ve,” he called, drawing out her name to the point that he sounded completely idiotic. He didn’t even add the polite “Miss” now.

            She turned around to tell him off, her buzz adding fuel to her anger rather than allowing her to be carefree. She would have liked to be as easy in the breeze as Espella, but even all tuckered up she couldn’t catch a break. _Just my luck_ , she thought, and somehow the mental notion made her even angrier. Not to the point of breaking things and screaming at the top of her lungs; it was more a strange, irrational frustration that boiled her blood and made her want to slap the scar off his stupid face.

            He stood on the path, swaying lightly, almost in time with the bell. The sun played off his hair, lighting some parts scarlet and some parts orange as the cool morning breeze ruffled the unkempt locks into further tangles. He’d taken off his armor after the Parade and his clothing was now disheveled, jacket hanging awkwardly off one shoulder and tie untied, dangling loosely around his neck. There was a grass stain on his shirt and one clasp of his sandal was unclasped, flopping loosely around his ankle. She looked him over, wondering how he’d gotten into such a state in the first place. Most likely those knights were play-fighting in a drunken rout and he’d gotten himself dirtied up; it wouldn’t have been the first time something like that had happened.

            “Is _this_ where you’ve been?” he continued on, his words slurring somewhat. It was clear that he wasn’t quite himself just from his facial expression alone, which was locked in a sort of loose vivacity that put a strange gleam in his eye. “I’ve been looking _everywhere_ for you. Why’d you leave so early?”

            “What do you want?” she asked, somewhat warily. Her tone must have been sharper than she meant it to be, as the smile slipped from his face and his shoulder slumped.

            “I only wanted to talk to you,” he mumbled, his words slurring together as he kicked at a rock in the road. His foot missed and the sandal came off, flipping through the air to land in the ditch on the other side of the road. He went to retrieve it, tripping over gravel and nearly falling headfirst in the ditch. He held the sandal loosely by its straps once he’d managed to grab ahold of it, swinging it lightly as he made his way across the street to where she sat.

            “Oh, so _now_ you want to talk?” she snapped, crossing her arms and tossing her head. “Maybe I don’t want to listen.” He smelled of ale and sweat—so he had been wrestling after all, or some other sort of physical exertion—and she wrinkled her nose when he crawled unsteadily up the side of the hillock and plopped down beside her, throwing the sandal off to the side.

            “B-b-but you’re the only one who listens,” he protested. He sounded so sad and pitiful that she found herself turning around to catch a glimpse of his face. A part of her considered that he was playing some sort of mean joke on her, but another part speculated that he was the type that got depressed the more he drank. “Eve, aren’t we friends?” Now his voice was a grating half-whine. “C’mon, say we’re friends,” he prompted, putting his hand on her upper thigh. She smacked it away, wondering what he’d do if she called his unthinking gesture harassment.

            “We’re friends,” she finally conceded begrudgingly. “But I’m angry at you,” she added quickly, not wanting him to get any bright ideas. “You’ve been acting so strange lately, and you didn’t come and talk to me once all night. You call that friendship?”

            “I came to look for you,” he pointed out.

            “’Tis morning now!” she argued. He took a moment to look at the rising sun.

            “Hmm. I suppose.” He shrugged. “But—” she cut him off.

            “Why didn’t you talk to me after I scared away those two brats?” she asked. Usually she didn’t dare be so forceful, even in her Court days, but the wine had loosened her tongue sufficiently and she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “You brushed me off. I was _worried_ about you!” she growled irritably, punching his arm as hard as she could. He hissed in pain, rubbing it and gracing her with a wounded expression.

            “Owww…” he pulled up his jacket sleeve and poked at the skin. “That hurt.”

            “Good,” she retorted sharply. “That’s about how I felt earlier today.”

            “I couldn’t talk to you until later. I was—not—” He paused. “I can’t think of the word.” His face screwed up in effort before he glared at the sun, hands bunching into fists. “But I was just so angry because they dared to threaten _my Eve._ I wanted to make them pay, and so I didn’t talk to anyone.”

            “Wh—what?!” Never before had she felt so conflicted about another’s words. She jumped to her feet, wobbling slightly from the rush of blood to her head as she pointed a finger at him, cheeks burning with indignation. “I am not _your_ Eve! I’m not anyone’s Eve!” Half of her was angry beyond belief at being branded as a possession, much less _his_ possession; however her other half felt a rush of exhilaration at how he thought of her as his, even if he never said anything about it when sober.

            “You _could_ be my Eve,” was the soft rejoinder. “If you wanted to be.” He stared up at her, hiccupping quietly and wiping his mouth on his forearm. “Would you want to be?”

            “That doesn’t matter right now!” Her face heated and she ran a hand through her hair, looking away.

            “I think it matters.”

            “Well… I—I don’t care what you think,” she sputtered. “Y-you can’t just pose a question like that to a woman when you’re drunk.” He made a soft sound, though whether in protest or compliance she didn’t know. “Anyway, back to what you said before… did you mean that you were going to fight me if you spoke to me? That doesn’t make any sense, Zacharias.”

            “Did you know,” he said, almost as if he hadn’t heard her question at all, “that I really, _really_ like it when you say my name?” He clambered to his knees, kneeling before her reverently. “No one ever says my name. They all call me Sir Barnham, and Rouge calls me Zach or Zacky, and Patty calls me ‘child’. Only you ever say Zacharias.”

            “W-what are you talking about?!” He grinned toothily.

            “My name.”

            “I-I know that!” He leaned forward, hands alighting on her hips and pushing her gently. She tried to steady herself, but her balance was off and she fell backwards. The grass cushioned her fall and she managed to keep her head from hitting the ground, only for it to end up there anyway as he suddenly loomed over her. “What the hell did you do that for!?”

            “You looked like you were getting angry, and I didn’t want you storming off.” He leaned up and rested his weight on one trembling hand, looking down at her. “You…umm…you look really pretty. Has anyone ever told you how pretty you are?” He smiled dazzlingly at her, and she was left trying to figure out if this was a ploy to stop her from getting angrier, or if he was just talking nonsense again.

            “No, they haven’t,” she finally admitted, playing along for lack of a better idea. If she could just get him off of her, she could probably manage to find a way to make him go home. He needed to be sleeping it off at the bakery, not harassing her on a hillside! Who knows what would happen if someone were to wander by and see them both through intoxicated eyes? Why, there’d be a downright scandal, between housewife gossip and heated looks thrown her way from his fan club! Besides, it was more than clear that she wouldn’t get any sort of conflict-solving conversation out of him today.

            “Well I don’t see a reason why. Maybe they were just waiting on me to do it.” He laughed, though she couldn’t see what was so funny, and then her innards turned to ice as he brushed the hair off her neck, letting it fan out on the grass before running his calloused fingers across her jaw. “You’re _exceptionally_ pretty, Eve. I thought that the very first time I laid eyes on you, you know.”

            “I—I didn’t know,” she managed to squeak. All her inner fury was gone now, replaced with bafflement and a small spark deep within her that enjoyed the feeling of his warm, roughened hands. She found herself wanting to move and mess up her hair so that he’d have to redo it, and she could feel it again.

            “Mhmm,” he drawled, his head dipping slightly. “It’s sudden, I know, but…um…I’d like to….” he trailed off, eyes half-closing as he leaned down. She realized what he meant to do and put her palm against his forehead, pushing up firmly as she hunched back against the grass.

            “Zacharias, _no_ ,” she said sternly, but her voice still managed to shake. She gulped and licked her lips. “You’ve clearly drank beyond your measure, and—to be frank, you’ve got ale-breath and I’d rather not taste it secondhand.”

            “Oh, but _Eve_ ,” he sighed, leaning his full weight against her hand until his neck craned back. “Don’t you like me?” She was taken aback by the question, but didn’t let it deter her.

            “Of course I do. We’re friends, remember?” He chuckled, shaking his head the best he could with her pushing him away.

            “No, I meant do you _love_ me?” he purred in a low voice, and then in the same breath repeated it, singing in an off-key, “Do you love me?” She only stared at him, and he laughed again. “Tis a song. I remember it.”

            “I—er—” What was she supposed to say? To say no—would that be a lie? She wasn’t even sure what mere infatuation felt like, much less full-blown love! But yes didn’t seem right either.

            “I’ll tell you a secret,” he said, and now he pushed easily against her hand with his, overpowering her and capturing her fingers in his as he bent his head down until they were almost cheek to cheek. “I love _you_.” His lips brushed her ear and she felt her heart thudding loudly against her ribcage. They stayed like that a long moment while she tried to get her thoughts in order and her body under control; people spoke of butterflies, but it felt more as though horses were stampeding through her stomach.

            “Zacharias…” She managed to maneuver them both until he wasn’t so close anymore. “You really need to sleep.” He nodded. “So do I.” She waited patiently for him to move off of her.

            “Okay.” He promptly collapsed on her, cheek pressed against her chest and arms worming their way around her back and stomach. He sighed contentedly and murmured something under his breath, a happy smile on his face. “Let’s take a nap,” he declared in a louder tone, tugging her body as close as it could get to his.

            “N-no! That’s not what I meant!” she shouted, trying to wiggle out of his (surprisingly strong) grasp. All her efforts were in vain and only succeeded in squashing her chest farther into his face—an action he didn’t seem to have any problem with. “I meant for you to go _home_ , Zacharias. What if someone comes along the path and sees us sleeping here like this?”

            “I don’t care,” was all the reply she got. She huffed, almost wishing that someone could come along and be her godsend. Of course the path had to be deserted _now_ , and she huffed up at the sky in her exasperation. She meant to pull his head off of her by yanking on his hair, but when her fingers threaded through the strands she found herself pausing. It really was thick, and soft, and she liked the way it slipped around her fingers as she pulled them through.

She found herself petting his head like one might a long-haired cat; the sun warmed the air around her, and having his body pressed up against her wasn’t entirely uncomfortable. In fact, it felt pretty damn good, despite everything. The warmth and his even breathing made her feel sleepy, and so she laid her head back and closed her eyes. Maybe when she woke up, she’d find out that this whole crazy event was only a very strange dream.

* * *

 _Thirsty….damn._ Barnham opened his eyes, seeing a good deal of black and feeling very warm. His temples ached, his skull pounded, he was thirsting to death, and his body felt about the same way it had when they’d managed to pull him off his horse after that whole humiliating Wild Ride incident. He licked his lips, twisting his shoulders and pressing deeper into whatever he was lying on. The world was spinning… well, no; it was rocking up and down. _Wait a minute_.

He raised his head, only to have something stop him before he could sit up. There was a sharp tug in his hair and he winced, reaching up to feel not a stick or a barb, but a hand. He looked down as best he could, poking gently at his ‘pillow’ and finding soft flesh and cloth beneath his curious fingers. _T-this is someone?_ A familiar yellow ribbon danced in and out of sight in his peripherals and he balked at once, his hand jerking back from the black cloth as if scorched. _E-Eve! It’s Eve—I—I was lying on her—touching her—her br—!!!_

“O-oh no. Oh no, no, no…” He tried to untangle her hand without waking her, his mind fuzzy with lack of sleep and his hangover. What the hell had happened? He didn’t—he hadn’t _done_ anything, had he?! Had they!?

“Nngh…” Eve opened one eye, looking straight at him as he put her hand gently on the ground and gave it a soft pat. “Well, are you all better now, Zacharias?”

“M-Miss Eve, I, er—” He grimaced; just from her expression, he knew that he must have done something awful. “Please, Miss Eve: if I did anything to frighten or—or offend you, please forgive me. I was goaded into drinking more than I should have and I, um… I apologize.” Both eyes opened and she glared at him.

“You called me _your_ Eve, pushed me down, told me you loved me, and then proceeded to use my breasts for a pillow.” From her tone, he knew she wasn’t lying. Some vague memory of doing what she said came to him and he buried his face in his hands, a hot wave of shame washing over him. Oh, what had he done!? _Well, you can kiss any small chance you had with her goodbye now,_ he thought miserably. _‘Tis not as if you would have ever been brave enough to confess your feelings to her before, anyway._

From his dark pit of shame behind his hands, he heard a chuckle that grew into soft, sleepy laughter. He looked up and saw her stretch, back arching as she rolled her shoulders and lifted her arms above her head. He couldn’t look away, his mind taking in the sight of her. _Even laughing at me, she’s still so lovely…_ He felt a small spark of desire in his gut and finally managed to tear his eyes off of her, gulping.

“You even tried to kiss me,” she continued, “but I wouldn’t let you while you were in such a state.” Something in her tone struck him as odd, as if—as if were he in another state, she’d be open to the idea. But surely that was only a misreading on his part, right?

“I apologize,” he repeated, moving to stand and finding his head spinning with dizziness. He sat back down, the world rocking too much for his liking. “I’ll be going home now; well, in a moment.”

“No.” He looked down at her as she grabbed his arm. She pulled him back, curling her upper body around his shoulders and pressing her chin into his hair. “You’re still in a bad state; it’d be irresponsible for me to let you walk the streets the way you are now.”

“A-as the High Inquisitor?” he asked, confused. Usually she was quick to remind people that she was no longer an Inquisitor in anything but ceremonial title, but here she was, enacting some sort of authority.

“No, fool. As—” Here she paused, and he heard her breath catch for a moment. _She’s nervous?_ “As your Eve.” While the words were rushed, her hands tightened around him, fingers playing with some hair above his ear. “If you were serious in your offer.” _D-damn! I can’t even remember that offer!_ He thought a moment, keeping quiet and listening to the sound of a woodpecker in the forest just down the path.

“I’d like that a lot,” he answered quietly, feeling a blissful warmth spreading all through him. _My Eve… I do like the sound of that._

“I’d like that too.”

“O-okay then.” She didn’t respond, and it took only a few more minutes for her to start snoring softly. He stared at the blue sky, still thirsty but also a little tired.

Maybe he could use a few more hours of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: I wanted this to be angst and kinda sad, but then Barnham had to screw it up and be a funny, affectionate drunk. So blame him.


End file.
